Anti Hero

by Skye Warren

  He held up the hammer, as if for me to take it. But when I grabbed for it, he pulled it out of my reach.

  “Repeat after me,” he said in a serious voice. “I promise not to smash Clint’s thumb.”

  I rolled my eyes but complied. “I promise not to smash Clint’s thumb.”

  He let me grab the hammer’s handle, but he didn’t release the other end. His gaze met mine. “And I promise to make more of my amazing pancakes for Clint tomorrow.”

  My breath caught. If I did what I promised Dmitri, Clint shouldn’t even be here tomorrow. I should turn him over tonight. I had to force the words out, and even then, they only came out as a whisper. “I promise to make more of my amazing pancakes for Clint tomorrow.”

  How could I keep that promise when my sister needed me?

  Instead of relinquishing the hammer, Clint used it to pull me close. I fell against him, my free hand landing on his broad chest. God, he was so solid. I leaned into him and breathed deep. Would I remember his scent long after he was gone? That thought hurt my heart.

  But the thought that I might forget hurt worse.

  Clint’s gaze was faintly knowing. “I promise to tell Clint if I’m in trouble.”

  My eyes widened. I released the hammer and stepped back. How did he know I was in trouble? “What?”

  He sighed, looking aggravated and guilty at the same time. He ran a hand over his hair, cut military short. “Sorry. I pushed too far?”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I lied.

  Those soft eyes asked me to open up. “If something’s wrong, if someone’s hurting you, maybe I can help.”

  Acid burned me up inside. Oh, he could help, all right. He was my sister’s ticket to freedom, only it meant he’d end up hurt. End up dead. That wasn’t supposed to matter to me. I’d seen enough people pass through my life not to care. Only Caro should matter anymore.

  “I don’t want your help,” I said too sharply. Because it was true. I didn’t want him to help with this.

  I wanted him to be safe.

  He sighed but didn’t push. When he handed me the hammer this time, there were no more demands, no more empty promises. He positioned the board and held the nail in place.

  “Go ahead,” he said, nodding toward the nail.

  I bent down and lined up the hammer. Then with a careful, firm swing I landed the hammer directly on the nail. I didn’t smash his thumb, because at least this promise I could keep.

  He took over the rest of the work while I watched from a few feet away. His body gleamed in the sunlight, sweat dripping down his neck, his arms. His body was a contrast of beauty and roughness, of taut muscles and fading bruises he must have gotten overseas. He’d been beaten and shot at over there, but he probably felt safe back on American soil. Only, he wasn’t.

  I had to look away. I blinked into the sunlight, which streamed through the tree above me and around the roof of my house. The Victorian was old and falling down in parts, and I couldn’t love it more. When things broke, I patched it up the best I could. I had been been struggling to save up money, but it wasn’t nearly enough to hire contractors or even handymen.

  That’s it. The money. I wondered how much it would take to buy Dmitri off.

  Immediately I dismissed that as the stupidest idea I’d ever had. No amount of money was going to keep Dmitri from going after Clint, especially if he knew the guy was staying at my house. And if I waited too long, Dmitri would send someone sniffing around and find him here. I couldn’t sit around waiting for that to happen.

  But what if I showed up and convinced Dmitri that I never got Clint to give me the time of day? I could say the guy went home with a friend from the army. I didn’t know who and I didn’t know where. At least that would give Clint a fighting chance to get away. And as for getting my sister back… maybe Dmitri would take the money. It wouldn’t be the first time I’d had to pay off Caro’s debts.

  I’d sure as hell rather do it with my life savings than with Clint’s life.

  * * *

  I slept uneasy that night, alternating between glaring at the open bedroom door and squeezing my eyes shut against what I had to do tomorrow. My body was curled into a ball in the center of my bed. Even completely still, I felt dizzy with the weight of my guilt. Whenever I reached out, I found sheets so empty and chilled they left me numb, as if I were floating on a slate of ice with only cold water around me.

  There was no one to blame but myself for my current lonely state. I had suggested that we sleep apart tonight, him in his guest room and me in my room. Being the gentleman, he had readily agreed.

  I loved and hated that he was a gentleman.

  Eventually I slipped into an uneasy dreamscape, a dark and shadowy place in my subconscious. There was a large city with gold pavement and emerald walls. And fire, angry and wild in front of me. Dmitri’s slimy voice boomed around me, demanding the broom of passenger 34B as payment so I could return home. But all I found in the witch’s fortress was Clint wearing that crooked smile of his. And when I returned to the Emerald City, when I pulled back the curtain—

  I woke up in bed, drenched with sweat and panting. My heart beat a million times a minute as I tried to calm down.

  The dream had been stupid and obvious, but it managed to solidify my feelings on the matter. I wasn’t going to bring Clint to Dmitri. I wasn’t going to watch him melt as if he were some kind of witch, because he wasn’t. That was the most fucked-up part of all, how sweet he was. How trusting, even though he’d clearly seen the worst humanity had to offer. I’d seen the same things, only I knew better than to trust strangers, even if they had a pretty smile and a white house with a wraparound porch.

  Monsters came in all shapes and sizes. They wore custom designer suits and stewardess uniforms. They gave you a job as a stripper or went down on you to help you sleep, but those were just part of the lure. Because when you had learned to trust the monster, when you let your guard down, that’s when you got eaten.

  When I woke up again, it was morning.

  Sun streamed through my white sheer curtains, and birds sang outside my window. I had loved the quaintness of the house when I first moved in. It had felt like a memory I’d never had, a chance to rewrite history. Only now the sweet, homey feeling felt perverse, even grotesque. The universe knew exactly how little I deserved this kind of life. No wonder it had all gone to hell.

  I got ready quickly, throwing on a pale blue polka-dot sundress because it was easy. My hair went up into a quick bun, because the last thing I wanted to do was give Dmitri the impression I had primped for him. My task today would be awful, and I’d rather get it over with.

  The sizzle and scent of bacon drew me downstairs.

  Clint stood in the kitchen wearing worn-looking jeans that hugged his ass, a loose army-green T-shirt, and bare feet. Two white straps wrapped around his waist and tied at the back.

  I recognized my apron and let out a startled laugh. “Hey, Martha Stewart.”

  He turned back, grinning, pretending to be offended. Then he saw me, and his smile faded. He stayed like that, spatula in hand, eyes on my face, lips pressed together. Shit. My heart stalled in my chest. I heard it from beneath the floorboards instead, the telltale heart, and I wanted to blurt out all my sins.

  He saved me from doing so, by saying, “You look really good.”

  My hand went to my falling-down hair in a self-conscious movement. “I’m a mess and you know it.”

  He shook his head, wearing a half grin that seemed more bemused than anything. As if I were the one missing something. His gaze was considering. “Every time I look at you, I see a new side of you.” His face screwed into a deprecating expression, as if he knew exactly how cheesy his words were—but couldn’t help himself anyway. “Every time, I think you can’t look any prettier than that, but then you do.”

  I blushed like a maniac, my cheeks burning so hot I had to look away. This was flirting, the way I tried to hide my smile and failed. Thes
e were practiced movements I had learned a long time ago. I had used them on countless customers and—to my eternal shame—on Dmitri, once upon a time. But they had never come out naturally. I’d never understood why a girl would twirl her hair on her finger or bite her lip, until now. It felt as natural as breathing to flirt this way, to scoot closer while huddling in on myself.

  “You hungry?” he asked in a low voice, and I knew he wasn’t talking about food. The tension pulsed in the room, igniting my desire and alerting me to his. Normally that would be a scary situation. Something to worry about or something that would pay my bills.

  Now I wanted to push him up against the counter so he had nowhere to go. I wanted to yank down those jeans and pull up his shirt—but I’d leave the apron on. I liked things twisted. I wanted a man as strong and capable and fearless as him, but I wanted him at my feet.

  “I can’t stay,” I said with genuine regret. “I have some errands to run this morning.”

  “Oh.” He glanced back at the pan of bacon. Scrambled eggs were already split onto two dishes. “You sure I can’t tempt you?”

  I stuck out my tongue. “You always do.”

  God, who was this girl? It was like I’d reverted to a sixteen-year-old girl, making faces at guys in the hallway between classes. At least, that was how I guessed it would be. I’d never been to high school, only taken GED courses by mail. I had never been sixteen either—not really. I’d gone from little girl to jaded woman in the blink of an eye.

  Clint loaded the bacon and toast onto the plates and brought them to the table. “Just a few minutes,” he said. He knew exactly the effect he had on me, the bastard. “You can tell me your plan for the day.”

  Just like that, all the fun flirtiness evaporated. I did sit down at the table, because walking away from this meal he’d made would be downright criminal. But I couldn’t help feeling like this was my last meal. It made the eggs taste rubbery and the bacon like charcoal.

  He took a bite but watched me curiously. “The food okay?”

  “It’s great,” I lied.

  The sound he made was noncommittal. “Are you okay?”

  “Of course.” I forced a smile. “Just a little tired, I guess.”

  “Yeah, I guess you have to unwind after all that travel. Jet lag times a thousand.”

  His voice sounded so sympathetic I actually winced. “It’s nothing compared to you. I mean, you were… fighting people. And also traveling. If anyone deserves to relax when you get home, it’s you.”

  Now he looked worried. About me. My words had come out too fast, and he knew something was wrong.

  “You don’t really have to tell me what you have planned for the day,” he said quietly. “I’m not going to pry.”

  My stomach twisted with self-hatred. I wanted the floor to swallow me up. I wanted to die.

  He should kill me, really. That was what soldiers did to the enemy—and I was definitely his enemy. What would he do if I told him the truth? I imagined the disbelief on his face, the disillusionment. I imagined his hatred and felt bile rise up in my throat. My fork clattered to the table.

  “I really do have to go.”

  “All right.” So fucking agreeable.

  He stood when I did, and it pissed me off. “Stop being a gentleman.”

  His eyebrows shot up. “Pardon me?”

  I snorted. “I’m serious. Stop it. It’s…annoying.”

  Was that hurt in his eyes? Great. Someone just shoot me so I could stop being a crazy person, one who kicked puppies and wounded sweet soldiers. Well, odds were good that Dmitri would shoot me today.

  “Look,” I said. “I’m sorry. Just… do me a favor and don’t answer the door while I’m gone. In fact, stay inside, okay? No fixing the porch step until I get back. Got it?”

  “Got it,” he said, his expression unreadable.

  “I’m serious, but I’ll be back soon. Like a couple hours at the most.” And if I wasn’t back by then, there was a decent chance that I wouldn’t be back at all. I didn’t want to think about what that would look like, but my mind was a heartless bastard. How long would Clint wait here before he figured out I was gone for good? Would he call the police or just leave?

  Ugh, now I was planning my own funeral.

  I turned to go upstairs and grab my purse. He caught my hand, his fingers ensnaring mine. He wasn’t holding me, not forcefully, but I still swung back as if he’d locked me down tight. When I turned to face him, he pressed a kiss to my lips, sweet and questioning. He cared about me. The certainty sank into my bones, building me up in a way I didn’t deserve. Shit. When had this happened? Hundreds of passengers, thousands of them, and I had to fall for the one I was supposed to kill.

  “See you soon,” I forced out, stepping back.

  It was only hurry that made me run up the stairs. Not guilt. Not shame that I couldn’t even meet his eyes. Not sadness that made me avoid the kitchen when I left the house, not looking for him at all. I walked down the freshly repaired porch step, got into my truck, and drove away. It wouldn’t do any good to fall for him. There was no point in dwelling on what might have been. After plotting to kill him, even if I hadn’t known him yet, I’d pretty much given up any right to a relationship with him. But I’d try to save him if I could.

  I might just die trying.

  Chapter Eight

  Clint

  Della was hiding something. I’d figured that out pretty quickly, but hey, everyone was entitled to their secrets. She’d let me into her home, but she still deserved her privacy.

  So I really had no fucking explanation for why I’d stowed away in the bed of Della’s truck.

  There was a fifteen-minute ride during which I berated myself for being every kind of moron, for being a creepy-ass stalker. She should call the cops on me. This was the behavior that could make the news alongside a special expose on the effects of warfare and PTSD.

  And maybe they had a point. I really had to wonder if my head was on straight as I huddled beneath a tarp. Of course following her was wrong, but I’d just seen something in her eyes that I recognized: fear. I needed to find out what—or who—she was afraid of. Even if that made me a nut job. Even if she’d kick me out of her house, and her life, if she knew what I’d done.

  The vehicle slowed as she turned into a parking lot. I tensed, wondering where we were. The ambient traffic sounds were the same as they’d been. We hadn’t gone too far and we hadn’t turned off on any dirt roads. We were off some random city road.

  Brakes squeaked as we stopped completely. The window whirred as it rolled down.

  “Good morning,” said a voice over an intercom. “How can I assist you today?”

  The bank. She’d gone to the fucking bank. I raged at myself all over again. You stalker. You creepy fuck. She let you into her home, she trusted you, and you repay her by following her when she runs legitimate errands.

  “I’d like to check my balance,” came Della’s voice.

  “One moment, please.” After a pause, the teller stated a balance of a few hundred bucks in checking and a little over eight thousand dollars in a savings account. Not a bad nest egg. Creepy. Stalker.

  “I’d like to withdraw eight thousand,” she said.

  And just like that, the warnings were pinging all over again. Something was wrong here, seriously wrong. Eight thousand bucks in the bank was good stuff for a girl who clearly lived modestly and worked hard. She had a house and a truck. All signs pointed to fiscal responsibility, but she practically runs away from breakfast and withdraws all her money?

  No. This girl needed help.

  I waited with very little patience while she completed the transaction. I wanted to bust out of the bed of the truck and get some answers. I wanted to demand she let me help her. But that would only terrify her right now. I needed to know more about what I was dealing with. I also needed a little backup.

  As we got back on the road, I pulled my cell phone from my pocket and dialed James.

  He
picked up on the second ring. “Yo.”

  “Hey, man.” Suddenly I felt sheepish. Okay, sure, we told each other everything. But I hadn’t forgotten how crazy this made me look. It looks crazy because it is crazy, man. “How’s Rachel?”

  “She’s good. Better than good. Now why are you calling me from a fucking wind tunnel?”

  It was pretty loud in the back of a truck when it was going forty—no, fifty—miles per hour. We had clearly picked up speed, which meant she was heading somewhere else, away from home rather than toward it. Another innocuous errand? Or did she have a plan for her life savings?

  “I have a situation,” I confessed.

  “With the data?” he asked, his voice on high alert.

  “No. Shit, no, I haven’t even had time to think about that. I’ve been…distracted.”

  “Ohh, that kind of distracted.”

  “Don’t say ohh, jackass. It’s not like that.”

  “What is it like then?” he asked in a mocking tone, clearly not buying it. As well he shouldn’t, since he was on the right track.

  “There’s this girl.” I ignored the smug sound over the phone. “Actually, you know her. Sort of. It’s the stewardess from the plane. I needed a ride and then Chelsea kicked me out and—”

  “Wait a minute. Chelsea kicked you out? But it was your apartment.”

  “I know. It’s a long story. Well, no, it’s not a long story. It’s a short one. She asked me to leave and I did. I had no desire to sleep in the bed where she’d fucked another guy.”

  “Aww, shit.”

  “Yeah, I know. But Della was there. She’d given me a ride, and I ended up going home with her.”

  “You fucking dog.” Genuine approval rang in his voice.

  “Yeah, well. It’s been great. She’s amazing and I’m more comfortable at her place than I’ve ever been in my life.” Oh yeah, and I’m falling for her. Hard.